Editing LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Game Over

<font size="3">'''Game Over'''</font>
<br><br>

"Want the last piece?" Talia said.
<br><br>

"Yeah!" Adrian said. "What was [Player's Name]'s plan? How did she-"
<br><br>

"I meant the last piece of poppadom."
<br><br>

She nodded at the white shard which rested among the crumbs, sharp and narrow like a blade.
<br><br>

"Oh... No, go ahead."
<br><br>

Talia took it with thumb and forefinger, held it up, and regarded it with a gaze that was almost mournful. She glanced at a nearby table. A young man and woman sat and laughed there, exchanging sweet words and starters. He shoveled his salad onto her plate. She retaliated by depositing a lamb chop on his. The man's hand came to rest on her fingers. Their eyes swam and shone with more than alcohol. Adrian Zanfran smiled.
<br><br>

"And the world goes on," Talia said. "People fall in love. Robots roll off TALOS' production lines. There are wars and peace and everything in-between."
<br><br>

She sighed, and dipped the shard into the little bowl of mango chutney. It came away bloodied with thick orange-gold that slid down the crisp whiteness in a slow, viscous rivulet. Her eye followed it for a long moment before she slipped the blade into her mouth.
<br><br>

Adrian waited while she crunched it between her teeth. And, mostly because he felt awkward just watching her eat, he reached for the jug of mango lassi. His tentacle's suckers latched onto the smooth glass, ignoring the handle. He looked to Talia. She nodded, and he topped her glass up before filling his own for the first time.
<br><br>

The drink was sweet and sugary. Thick, like a good milkshake. He took a long gulp, before the vodka's fire burned at the back of his mouth and made him cough.
<br><br>

"I thought all writers drank hard. That's what Ragnar's friend told me."
<br><br>

"Svana Spunbracher?"
<br><br>

"Yeah."
<br><br>

"I'll work on it." He waited for a second or two, then said: "Lady Hollister's assassination, and the massacre in the robot factory..."
<br><br>

"I already told you about those. If you want me to tell everything twice, it'll be a long meal."
<br><br>

"But... Does anyone else know? That the Kalaxians were responsible?"
<br><br>

"Maybe." She shrugged. "But if they do, we never heard anything about it. Just the official story -- same as everyone else. Centi Priders murdered Hollister, and anti-robot extremists attacked TALOS."
<br><br>

"Can I..."
<br><br>

"If you want to write about it, go ahead. Everyone'll think it's one more conspiracy theory."
<br><br>

"But-"
<br><br>

Adrian paused when the waiter appeared beside them, and murmured his thanks as the Rylattu laid out their main course. The curries steamed in oval dishes -- the masala a rich, bright red like a stop sign; his vindaloo a deep, dark brown, with tiny tentacles poking above the sauce. Spicy scents curled in the air between the diners, ethereal fingers teasing, tantalizing, and beckoning. The bowl of colorful basmati rice lent its own subtler fragrances to the melange. So did the neat triangles of garlic naan.
<br><br>

When the Rylattu was gone, Adrian fiddled with his glass.
<br><br>

"You don't have to wait for me," Talia said. She ladled rice onto her plate. "If I had any table manners left after the military, eating with Ragnar killed them. Every meal was like a massacre."
<br><br>

"I'm just scared of the vindaloo."
<br><br>

She laughed, and it warmed her face.
<br><br>

"It's been a while since I've had an anaconda masala. Every time, I think of that last dinner we had with Illaria."
<br><br>

"I'm sorry."
<br><br>

"Don't be. I want to remember that night, for the rest of my life. We didn't have time for a big meal before we moved against cult. Everyone was too busy getting ready. Kind of a shame, but it wouldn't have been the same anyway. And I think we all said everything that needed to be said..."
<br><br>

***
<br><br>

"Hey, Tel," you say.
<br><br>

"Hey."
<br><br>

His mech's cockpit canopy flips open, revealing the prince. Lights from the control panels, bright in the gloomy vehicle bay, illuminate his face in shades of green and yellow that remind you of Halloween zombie costumes.
<br><br>

"I was testing the night vision."
<br><br>

"Yeah?" You scale the mech, finding familiar hand and footholds, and sit beside him. "You should be more worried about the psionic dampeners."
<br><br>

"They'll work. And those cult guys can't use their psychic stuff if we're chainsawing them."
<br><br>

"We? Please tell me you didn't..."
<br><br>

"Yeah! My palace guards use laser-edged chainsaws now!"
<br><br>

You grimace. When the Kalaxians established a base on a world near Gallea, they probably didn't think it'd bring a band of chainsaw-wielding lunatics down on their heads. But that's life.
<br><br>

"I told them to hold off," Tel says, "in case the cult's watching my planet. They won't head out till I'm almost there. Then we'll hit them fast, like you said."
<br><br>

"Good thinking."
<br><br>

There's a moment of silence. It isn't uncomfortable -- you know each other far too well for that. But unspoken things hover around you, begging to be said.
<br><br>

"I'm sorry," you say.
<br><br>

"Huh?" He stops fiddling with his controls and looks round. "For what?"
<br><br>

"For not being there, when you needed me. By the time I heard..."
<br><br>

"It's okay. You've been busy, getting kicked through windows and stuff."
<br><br>

"Great... I go through one window, and suddenly that's all anyone wants to talk about."
<br><br>

"Hey, it got more hits on the net than anything else you've done."
<br><br>

"Seriously?"
<br><br>

"Yeah."
<br><br>

"Sometimes I think we should just burn the galaxy down and start over..."
<br><br>

"I'll need a bigger mech for that."
<br><br>

"You'll need a bigger one anyway. In a couple of years you'd have to cram yourself into that cockpit."
<br><br>

"Yeah... Guess so."
<br><br>

"It's a shame." You pat the armor plating next to your thigh. "I'll miss this old thing. We've been through a lot together, huh?"
<br><br>

"Us and the mech, or you and me?"
<br><br>

"Both. Maybe the next one can have a crown, and you can take it to your coronation."
<br><br>

He looks away, and his smile fades.
<br><br>

"Tel..." You think of changing the subject, of talking about happier, carefree things. But what kind of friend would you be then? "Talia said your seneschal..."
<br><br>

"Bermund?"
<br><br>

"She said he wants you to take the throne. That there're some things a prince can't do, legally."
<br><br>

"Yeah..."
<br><br>

"If Gallea needs a-"
<br><br>

"My father was a king. He was smart, and..."
<br><br>

"Tel, I've seen you hack systems, repair this mech of yours, and guide a missile to make an impossible hit."
<br><br>

"Yeah, I'm smart at games, and blowing stuff up! Not ruling a planet!"
<br><br>

"But you're young enough to learn, and you have advisors to help you until you do."
<br><br>

"Wu said he'd help teach me."
<br><br>

You laugh before you can help it. He looks at you, lips twitching -- confused but still infected by your merriment.
<br><br>

"Sorry. I was just imagining you dressed in mini Wu robes, stroking a fake moustache while you plan secret deeds. And Wu may be gone, but he left all those writings behind. Besides, he isn't the only leader we know. Just don't take advice from Dupont..."
<br><br>

"My father was a good king, and he died because of me."
<br><br>

"Tel..."
<br><br>

"Don't tell me he didn't. If I hadn't attacked the Centurians, they wouldn't have killed him!"
<br><br>

"If you hadn't attacked the Centurians, they'd have killed me, Illaria, and Talia. And after that? With no one to stop them? The Besalaad might be running human space by now. The decisions we've made, the things we've done, change everything. Good and bad. If you just think about the bad stuff, you're letting the past ruin the present and the future."
<br><br>

He stares at you.
<br><br>

"What?" you say.
<br><br>

"That's the kind of stuff the Princess used to say."
<br><br>

"Yeah?" You smile and let out a soft sigh. "I've been inside my head, and other people's heads, a lot lately. Maybe it's making me think more than I used to. Or maybe I'm just getting philosophical in my old age."
<br><br>

Silence descends once more, soft and warm. Filled with welcome ghosts and memories. Telemachus fiddles with his controls, while you watch him work.
<br><br>

"Think you can beat Noir?" he says, without looking at you.
<br><br>

"Maybe. I have to try. Even if we take out the rest of the cult, Noir's too dangerous to be left out there."
<br><br>

"What if he wins?"
<br><br>

"I don't know, Tel. I don't know..."
<br><br>

"You'd better kick his ass then, huh?"
<br><br>

"Yeah."
<br><br>

<font size="3">'''Literature and Lacerations'''</font>
<br><br>

"Did you bring a gun?" Svana Spunbracher said.
<br><br>

"I didn't think that would be appropriate..." Rektor Hrolfsson sighed and looked at her.
<br><br>

The hovercar's autopilot kicked in with a soft beep, seizing control from the distracted driver. It guided the vehicle round the next turn and along a streetlight-splashed road.
<br><br>

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. I've got two pistols."
<br><br>

Svana tapped the dashboard. A hatch slid open. The compartment's bright glow bathed her face, almost the same shade of gold as her hair.
<br><br>

"Take this axe," she said. "If they get close, start hacking."
<br><br>

Rektor winced.
<br><br>

"I don't know..." he said.
<br><br>

"Trust me." Svana bit her lip. Her eyes widened. "Grenades! You should have grenades, in case they attack in a horde."
<br><br>

"I'll pick some up on the way."
<br><br>

"Promise? I don't want you going in there without grenades."
<br><br>

"Promise."
<br><br>

"And get someone good to watch your back. Not Greta. She'll start running before the first axe flies. Maybe Donnie. Especially if he has the machinegun with him."
<br><br>

"I will." He smiled at her. "Bet you're glad you don't have to go to these things anymore, huh?"
<br><br>

"No kidding. I always hated parent-teacher night. Ugh... It's like they don't even know how crappy their kids are. You tell them their girl's a screw up who comes to class with chems leaking out of her nose, and they act like you've pissed on an angel."
<br><br>

The car slowed down. It stalked the illuminated store fronts like a jungle cat, creeping past wandering shoppers and slumbering rows of parked vehicles.
<br><br>

"Things aren't so bad now," Rektor said. "Most of the kids are still scared your friend'll come back and rip their legs off."
<br><br>

"Good."
<br><br>

A deep, growling voice sounded from the dashboard.
<br><br>

"You have reached your destination. Get out and pillage!"
<br><br>

The passenger door rose, and a gust of warm city air toyed with Svana's tresses.
<br><br>

"There's still time to blow off parent-teacher night and join me," she said.
<br><br>

"I'd love to. But then I'd go in tomorrow and find Greta's head stuck on a spike."
<br><br>

He leaned over and kissed her.
<br><br>

"Good luck," she said.
<br><br>

"You too."
<br><br>

Svana Spunbracher got out of the car, and watched it pull away. She wondered if she should call Ragnar Ragnarsson. Maybe he could recommend a good death squad, just in case the educator ended up needing a little fire support. But Rektor had survived these things before.
<br><br>

She sighed and turned towards the door. Svana paused there for a moment, inspecting her reflection in its dark glass. Her hair looked pretty. Nice and curly, with good volume. But her expression... She experimented for a few moments, widening and narrowing her eyes, pursing and curving her lips.
<br><br>

The door swung open. Svana's face froze somewhere between somber wisdom and a coquettish smirk. The bald man stared for a long moment, before shuffling around her. He kept his eyes fastened on Svana, perhaps suspecting that she was a madwoman who might eat his kidneys the moment he looked away. She sighed. When the door clicked back into place, she watched her cheeks redden.
<br><br>

Svana adjusted her facial features once more. After a minute or so, she settled on a look of jovial genius which seemed appropriate for an author. Thus armed and armored, she stepped into the bookshop's warmth.
<br><br>

A tall, gorgeous blonde woman in a mail bikini was waiting beyond the doorway. Svana had just enough time to wonder if she'd walked into a strip club by mistake, before the scantily clad female spoke.
<br><br>

"I'm Valkyrie Bloodsword, author of The Saga of Drunken Ragnar! Come here tonight at seven and I'll teach you about the secrets..." The literary valkyrie winked and leaned forward -- contorting her body in a way which indicated that cleavage was more important than spinal health. "...of creative writing."
<br><br>

Svana glared at the hologram.
<br><br>

"It doesn't even look like me!" she murmured.
<br><br>

Svana Spunbracher clenched her fists, and wished her agent was within punching range. But he wasn't. She'd have to pummel him later -- and hope the little pervert didn't enjoy it too much.
<br><br>

"I'm Valkyrie Bloodsword, author of-"
<br><br>

She walked past the image, which thankfully fell silent with no one there to appreciate its unrealistic anatomy. The frown melted off Svana's brow an instant later. It was hard to stay angry in one of her favorite places.
<br><br>

Dark wooden bookcases surrounded her on three sides. Each of them was a work of art; every inch of wood bore sculpted images, depicting longships, sea serpents, geometric patterns, rows of blooming roses, and sundry other designs. Those decorated shelves framed leather-bound volumes in a multitude of sizes and colors. Svana reached for a book at random. Its purple spine slid out from its neighbors' embrace, bearing Alexander Pope's name alongside that of an ancient epic. Svana turned it in her hands, stroking the jagged edges of yellow-brown pages, and brought it near to her nose. It smelled old and ponderous and wonderful. The scent was synthetic. And she knew the pages had come out of the printer that way, simulating books from the days when readers cut knowledge free with a blade. But she loved it all the same.
<br><br>

Thus fortified, and with a smile of genuine contentment in lieu of her practiced expression, Svana returned the tome and walked between the bookcases. The path twisted and turned. A magical labyrinth sprawled around her, mysterious and decadent. Gloriously unintuitive. This wasn't a place for novices. Its paths had to be discovered, its secrets earned. And Svana Spunbracher knew them all.
<br><br>

"There you are!" Milly Tenderbrook's head, framed by a veritable bascinet of ginger hair, popped out from between the cases. "Oh... I thought you'd be wearing the costume. Doesn't matter! Doesn't matter! Come on -- they're all waiting."
<br><br>

She took Svana's arm and dragged her down a short, book-lined passage, towards a wooden relief sculpture of galloping, lance-wielding Arthurian knights. The bookshop owner pushed one of the double doors inwards, bisecting the impressive artwork. Svana followed her (without much choice in the matter, since she wanted to keep that arm) into the room reserved for author nights.
<br><br>

"Here she is, everyone!" Milly continued to yank the captured limb, pulling the writer up onto the stage -- as though she feared Svana might escape if left to her own devices. "Valkyrie Bloodsword!"
<br><br>

Svana Spunbracher found herself behind a lectern, gazing out at dozens of faces which seemed to hover above blurs of clapping hands. She waved. The audience was much as she'd expected. There were nerds sporting a range of amusing or incomprehensible t-shirts, a few people dressed like Ragnar Ragnarsson, a smattering of middle-aged women who looked like they'd just knocked back their seventh or eighth glasses of wine, and a couple of glaring malcontents -- the sort who only came to these things to complain about whichever element of the author's work most offended them. Svana had dealt with their kind before. She tended to take comfort in the fact that her fans would usually beat them up in the parking lot afterwards.
<br><br>

"Thank you, thank you!" Svana said. She waited a moment for the applause to die down. "Sagas! Back on Earth, our ancestors-"
<br><br>

"Die!"
<br><br>

"...believed that stories could... Huh?"
<br><br>

A young man with a freckled face stood up in the middle of the audience. He pulled up his t-shirt (which bore a cartoonish, two-dimensional replica of Ragnar's muscular physique), and reached for the pistol wedged behind his waistband.
<br><br>

"This is for... for... using the passive tense too much!" he said.
<br><br>

"The passive is a voice, not a tense!" Svana said. She shouted the words before she realized that this was perhaps the less important part of the situation at hand.
<br><br>

Everything slowed down. The lunatic's gun slipped out from his pants. His face twitched, and there was a faint flicker that betrayed his holographic disguise. Everyone else flickered too. Within the rapid thoughts bouncing around Svana Spunbracher's head, she wondered if the entire universe was being broadcast on faulty technology. That would explain a lot...
<br><br>

The gun rose.
<br><br>

So did everyone else. The entire audience leapt to their feet, and... expanded? Holograms blinked out of existence. Muscles rippled. Chain armor glinted. Energy pulsed blue, orange, and red along the edges of swords and axes. The eclectic audience sprouted into a host of muscular men and women who encircled the deranged fan. The gunman gawped. The Niflungs roared. Weapons rose and fell.
<br><br>

Blood sprayed. Milly cried out. Chunks of gore flew in all directions.
<br><br>

Something larger hurtled at Svana's face. She caught it between her hands out of instinct, and stared into the deranged fan's eyes. They were surprisingly nonchalant for someone who'd just been decapitated. Then the disguise vanished.
<br><br>

A featureless mask... Just like her omnicidal friend had warned her about. Svana Spunbracher tossed the severed head over her shoulder and gazed at the blood-spattered audience.
<br><br>

"Everyone?" she said. "Really?"
<br><br>

The warriors exchanged sheepish looks.
<br><br>

"Sigurd told us to keep an eye on you," a seven foot tall valkyrie said.
<br><br>

"Death to the Spinebreaker's enemies!" a berserker said.
<br><br>

"Death!" the others chorused.
<br><br>

They began to bustle along the rows of chairs, making for the exit. Svana's eyes narrowed.
<br><br>

"Stop right there! I came here to give a talk about literature, and I'm not giving it to an empty room."
<br><br>

"But..." the towering Valkyrie said.
<br><br>

"Sit down!"
<br><br>

The warriors looked at one another, then at the warlord's glaring daughter, and returned to their seats. Svana Spunbracher gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
<br><br>

"As I was saying... Back on Earth, our ancestors..."
<br><br>

<font size="3">'''Between a Snuuth and A Hard Place'''</font>
<br><br>

Arshad Malik's eyes were closed. They had been so for at least an hour, during which he'd slept for perhaps three dispersed minutes and pretended to slumber for the rest. Yet the old woman sitting on his right, whose boney elbow dug into his side like a torturer's tool, was still babbling away. Light from her datapad brightened the darkness behind his lids.
<br><br>

"And this is my other great-grandson, Crispin. He's a chem dealer on Drekchester. Such a nice boy! He sends me some of my favorite pills every Christmas, and prints little angels on them -- just for me. I don't like his husband though, because he's always..."
<br><br>

Malik tried to tune her out and focus his hearing elsewhere. But the alternative wasn't much better. On his left -- within rolls of hot, sweaty flesh that spilled over the armrest and seemed on the verge of entombing him beneath an avalanche of pure fatness -- came a series of popping, churning, burbling noises. They culminated in a breaking of wind which might've heralded judgment day. And the ensuing stench made Malik long for that apocalypse. God... What had the fat bastard been eating? Sewage? The smell was almost physical, smothering his face with thick, fecal warmth...
<br><br>

He turned his head away, opened his eyes, and gasped.
<br><br>

"Window!" he said. "Someone open a window!"
<br><br>

"Sir..." A Piscarian stewardess trotted over. "We're in space. If these windows opened, it'd kill us all."
<br><br>

Her nose twitched. Her smile faltered. She clamped her hand to her mouth, and bright pink flesh bulged on either side of her face.
<br><br>

"I..." She backed away down the narrow aisle. "I'll bring you some smell-canceling nose buds!"
<br><br>

"Hmm?" the Snuuth said. He sniffed the air. "Is there a smell?"
<br><br>

"I can't smell anything these days, dear," the old woman said. "Not since that last operation..."
<br><br>

She leaned over, driving her elbow deeper into Malik's body until he was fairly certain its point scraped his spine, and held her datapad out. The Snuuth's bulk fell upon him as the alien tried to get a better look at the screen. Malik let out a wheeze, while the alien smothered him and old woman ground his organs to mush.
<br><br>

"Look at the mess that surgeon made of my nose! My daughter-in-law's a solicitor..."
<br><br>

"Like a prostitute?" the Snuuth said.
<br><br>

"A little bit. She's a lawyer. She said I could sue that hospital for..."
<br><br>

Malik extracted himself from the alien's flab and slumped over onto the woman, gasping for breath.
<br><br>

"Young man! Young man!" The boney joint thudded into him again and again. "You're taking up too much space! Young man!"
<br><br>

He groaned, and tried shield his bruised ribs.
<br><br>

"Attention!" The perky female voice echoed over the ship's speakers. "We're approaching our destination. Please resume your seats as we prepare for atmospheric entry. Thank you for flying Neo-American Spaceways. Oh... And please be aware that two of our cargo compartments came open during the flight. If your belongings were among those accidentally jettisoned into space, you'll be entitled to claim a free cup of coffee on your next Neo-American Spaceways flight. Thank you."
<br><br>

The Snuuth shifted like a collapsing mountain. Malik exhaled and righted himself. The old woman sniffed, and murmured something about young people.
<br><br>

Sanderson never had to fly interstellar economy class. That thought burned in Malik's brain till it seemed as though his eyes might ignite -- and possibly kill them all in an explosion of detonated methane. The bastard got to take the company ship on his business trips. Well, not after today. When Malik got to that meeting and wowed their clients with the presentation, his bosses would have to take notice. Then Sanderson would be the one taking commercial flights like a bum! Malik tried to comfort himself with this dream as the ship rocked, hurling him into the Snuuth's gut and then onto the woman's elbow.
<br><br>

The cabin shuddered. Metal screeched and whined. A few children screamed. Someone yelled, "Death to Neo-America!" -- though that was fairly standard, in Malik's experience. He'd heard about a nun who became a mass murderer after putting up with one of these trips.
<br><br>

But the ship came to a halt without either bursting into flames or smashing them into the spaceport building. So at least there was that.
<br><br>

"Please leave the cabin as soon as possible," the speaker-voice said, "so we can board our next passengers. If the person in front of you is causing delays, please push them aside."
<br><br>

A surge of people swept Malik along, and spurted him through the exit hatch like the cork from a champagne bottle. He landed on all fours. A woman wearing a stiletto stood on his hand. Someone else kicked him in the butt. He scrambled to his feet, glaring, but the perpetrators were long gone. The tide of human and alien flesh had borne them away.
<br><br>

"Are you okay?" a woman's voice said.
<br><br>

Malik turned around, and a torrent of pent-up abuse rushed up his throat, ready to unleash itself in a cataclysm of bitter sarcasm. But it faltered on his tongue and slid back down again. The woman standing in front of him was beautiful. Hair like ebon silk, mysterious and enticing in its rich blackness, shaped and stroked gentle olive features. Deep purple eyes and soft, shapely lips the exact same color held genuine concern.
<br><br>

"I... Yeah," Malik said.
<br><br>

The lady reached for him, and he almost stepped back or raised his arms out of instinct. She smiled, as though sensing his hesitation, and adjusted his tie.
<br><br>

"There we go. If you're going somewhere you need to wear a tie, you have to look smart."
<br><br>

Arshad Malik beamed. Smugness expanded in his stomach. And Sanderson had said ties were ridiculous, archaic...
<br><br>

"You must be here for something important," she said.
<br><br>

"I'm giving a presentation to some very influential clients."
<br><br>

"Good luck!"
<br><br>

"Thanks! I-"
<br><br>

The lady leaned in and kissed his cheek. She laughed at his surprise.
<br><br>

"I'm staying at the Tritac on Decros Street." She bit her lip, and it made her lovelier. "Maybe after you impress them, we can go for a drink?"
<br><br>

"Uh, yeah! I-"
<br><br>

She giggled again and slipped away with the streaming crowd. Malik stood there for some moments, barely aware of the shoulders bumping into him and the accompanying swearwords. His fingers rested where her lips had been just a moment before. His eyes shone. Things were looking up already!
<br><br>

He laughed, ignoring the blank stares it attracted, and let the flow of people carry him towards the spaceport building on its inexorable currents.
<br><br>

<font size="3">'''Hot Flash'''</font>
<br><br>

"You stay out of sight," Rachel Thrane said. "I'll give you a brain prod when I've got him."
<br><br>

"I always have to play back up," Sandeep Singh said. "Just because I'm not psionic..."
<br><br>

"No. It's because you don't look like this."
<br><br>

Rachel performed a slow, elegant pirouette. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the leafy branches and lingered on her curves alongside Sandeep's gaze. The tight purple jumpsuit was more like body paint than a garment.
<br><br>

"And by the way, I can see what you're thinking."
<br><br>

"Oh! I..." Sandeep blushed. "I... I was just..."
<br><br>

"Yeah." Rachel rolled her eyes. "So, one more time..."
<br><br>

"You go to the door. He opens it, and you do psychic stuff."
<br><br>

"Right. If he knows where [Player's Name] is, I get that info -- and the grandmistress will love us forever. After that..." She sighed. "When I said she'd love us, that's not what I meant! Get that out of your head. Now!"
<br><br>

"I can't help it! If I know you're looking in there, I can't help it! I get embarrassed, and then I think of that stuff, and then I get more embarrassed!"
<br><br>

"We're going to have to work on your mental discipline, and... Really? Discipline?"
<br><br>

"Stay out! Just stop looking, okay! For the love of the wyrm-mother, stop!"
<br><br>

"Fine. But seriously, work on that. Now, the rest of the plan..."
<br><br>

"You get what you need out of his brain, then send me the signal. I'll come along and shoot him in the head."
<br><br>

"Just don't come before I tell you. Flashheart's dangerous. If I don't have him locked down..."
<br><br>

"I know. I've got this."
<br><br>

"Good. Let's go."
<br><br>

Rachel stepped out from the little copse of trees and darted across the lawn. Sandeep watched her run, and hoped she wasn't reading his thoughts. He waited a few moments, till she was near the house, then followed. The building they approached was large but otherwise unremarkable and unassuming. He'd somehow expected to find the exterior lit up in the manner of a Cytheran brothel, with naked women lounging around the gardens like weary nymphs. But apparently the microcosmic Sodom and Gomorrah he'd heard about were locked within its walls instead.
<br><br>

Sandeep crouched behind a corner of the house. He drew his pistol and leaned around. Rachel stood at the front door. She looked at him, while her voice whispered in his mind.
<br><br>

"Remember -- wait there."
<br><br>

"Got it." He thought the words instead of speaking them. Then other thoughts intervened. "Oh... Damn it!"
<br><br>

Her sigh echoed in his skull. Sandeep winced. It wasn't his fault! Whenever he knew someone was reading his mind, his asshole subconscious decided to sabotage him by making him think indecent thoughts!
<br><br>

Rachel rang the doorbell. Sandeep leaned back, putting himself out of sight. A few moments later he heard a man's brash voice.
<br><br>

"I'd ask what brings a lovely lady like you to my doorstep, but I think we both know the answer's me! So let's get you inside, peel off that jumpsuit and... Hey! What..."
<br><br>

"[Player's Name]," Rachel said. Her voice was soft and booming at the same time. A sweet avalanche that echoed across the planet and whispered inside Sandeep's mind. "Tell me everything you know about [Player's Name]."
<br><br>

"You're a saucy mare, aren't you? Five seconds after meeting me, and you're already in my deep dark places! Normally it's the other way around!"
<br><br>

"Your bravado won't save you! I can see into your soul! Into your deepest... secret... innermost... Oh, Flashy!"
<br><br>

"Huh?" Sandeep said.
<br><br>

Rachel's voice disappeared from his skull with a soft pop, as though his brain had unfurled to recapture that stolen space. He looked around the corner. And his mouth hung open.
<br><br>

Captain Flashheart's trim, handsome figure stood there, wearing a red jumpsuit and a woman in purple. Rachel's arms and legs were wrapped around him so tight that Sandeep might've thought she was assassinating him with a grappling hold -- except for the face that her tongue was down his throat.
<br><br>

"What the hell?" He got up and ran over. "Rachel? What're you-"
<br><br>

Their mouths parted. Rachel gazed into Flashheart's eyes, and if she'd seen the expression on her own face, she may've recognized it from Sandeep Singh's deepest, most embarrassing fantasies.
<br><br>

"I wasted my life worshipping Kalaxia!" she said.
<br><br>

"Bloody right!" Flashheart said. "If that silly blue cow I saw in your head comes back, she'll be worshipping me!"
<br><br>

"Rachel!" Sandeep said. "You-"
<br><br>

"Oh, shut up, culty!"
<br><br>

The captain drew his pistol, locked lips with her again, and shot Sandeep in the face.
<br><br>

<font size="3">'''Sports Entertainment'''</font>
<br><br>

The security line inside the spaceport was long. In fact, it was so long that Malik suspected some of the older passengers might die of old age before they reached the front -- and he'd have to step over their corpses. But that was okay. Today this additional inconvenience of commercial space travel couldn't remove the smile from his face. Even a targeted nuclear strike or extinction-level meteor would've found that difficult.
<br><br>

"Take your shoes off," one of the security people up ahead said.
<br><br>

"I'm a cyborg," the traveler in question said. "Those are my feet."
<br><br>

"Then take your feet off!"
<br><br>

The woman... Malik didn't even know her name, but that didn't matter. What mattered were those amethyst eyes and lips... Her gorgeous face... That lithe but voluptuous figure. And she liked him!
<br><br>

"We're going to have to confiscate those, sir."
<br><br>

"What? Have your brains been melted into slimy filth-goo? If you take my doomsday weapons, how will I destroy stink-beasts with my superior technology?"
<br><br>

"Visit a gun store."
<br><br>

She liked him! Malik jumped up and tried to click his heels together. He missed, and gave himself a hard bang on the calf instead. But that was fine. She liked him!
<br><br>

"And one final question, ma'am. Were you involved in the Centurian genocide?"
<br><br>

"Yeah, I fragged some Centi escape pods. So what?"
<br><br>

"Then thank you for your service, and please accept this complimentary Prince Telemachus badge."
<br><br>

"Cool."
<br><br>

She swam in Malik's mind. Her naked body pinned him down... Those beautiful eyes stared into his, promising him everything the galaxy had ever kept back for men like Sanderson and his piece of crap bosses with their fancy ships and-
<br><br>

"Sir!"
<br><br>

"Huh?" Malik blinked.
<br><br>

"You're next." A Vlarg in an orange jumpsuit stood in front of him. Her three red eyes seemed to stare at different parts of his face. "Get into the chamber."
<br><br>

"Oh. Sure."
<br><br>

Arshad Malik stepped onto the platform, raised his arms, and waited for the lights to play across his body. That one on the right was the same color as her lips... His cheek burned with glorious, radiant warmth. Tomorrow he'd ace his presentation. Then he'd go to her hotel and-
<br><br>

He frowned. Why were all those sirens going off?
<br><br>

Malik looked around, through the chamber's curved, tinted glass walls, and his jaw hung open. Men and women in sealed orange suits were running around out there -- waving wands at everyone, like conjurers performing magic tricks.
<br><br>

"Hey!" he said. He grabbed at the door and tugged it. "What's happening? What's-"
<br><br>

"Sir!" a woman's voice said. It came from beyond a helmet's opaque window. She pressed her gloved hands against his glass prison. "Do not try to leave the chamber! I repeat, do not try to leave that chamber!"
<br><br>

"What's happening? What the-"
<br><br>

"The med teams will be here any minute, and they'll put you in quarantine. Don't resist! Your condition is highly infections. They'll use their chainsaws and take you there in bags if they have to!"
<br><br>

In Malik's mind, purple lips laughed.
<br><br>

***
<br><br>

"Hey! You can't be here!"
<br><br>

The stocky human in the blue uniform stepped in front of Leilarki and held out his hands to block her. He was shouting, but the horrendous din still almost drowned him out.
<br><br>

"Huh?" the Piscarian said. She leaned towards him, turned her head, and cupped her hand around her green ear.
<br><br>

"I said..."
<br><br>

He took another step closer and pressed something on his belt. A low, electric thrum vibrated in the air around them -- muffling the cacophony from the arena, quietening the crowd's shrieks to a dull murmur.
<br><br>

"...you can't be here! Fans aren't allowed on this level!"
<br><br>

"I wanted a better view," the Piscarian said.
<br><br>

"Yeah? Then buy a front row tick-"
<br><br>

He gurgled and fell backwards. When he hit the ground, the voices of thousands of Twisted Steel fans flooded the corridor once more. Leilarki jerked her left wrist. The bloody blade slid back into its dock beneath her green flesh. There was a mild quiver while its cleaning systems went to work. She crouched down, undid the guard's belt clasp, and pulled it off him.
<br><br>

When it was around her own waist, she turned it back on and let out a sigh. She hadn't expected the losers to be so loud. Rookie mistake. Either way, she needed some aural implants so in future she could adjust the surrounding volume herself. Maybe Kalaxia would provide... After all, Professor Bonderbrand would be grateful for this one.
<br><br>

Leilarki glanced down at the body and shrugged. No one else was scheduled to patrol this part of the stadium for at least fifteen minutes. And if she tried to drag him somewhere, she might miss her window. So the Piscarian walked past his corpse and found the door she was looking for.
<br><br>

She opened it a crack and peered through. But the intel was good. Whatever this little balcony was used for, it was empty. There weren't even any seats. A deactivated terminal was the only furnishing. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and went over to the waist-high barrier. Leilarki wasn't prone to vertigo, but the view still made her stomach flutter. The crowd fell away below -- a multicolored landslide of t-shirts and waving signs, cascading towards the ring.
<br><br>

"Perfect," she said.
<br><br>

Her cybernetic leg's compartment opened with a click and a hiss. She pulled out the metal rod and pressed a button on its side. Leilarki smiled when it unfolded. This rifle always reminded her of a toy she'd had as a kid, though that one had deployed itself into a robotic shark.
<br><br>

The Piscarian knelt down and rested the barrel on the balcony's lip.
<br><br>

Exactly four minutes and forty-two seconds later (she'd wasted eighteen more seconds with the guard than she'd anticipated), the crowd got to their feet, waved their arms and signs, and clamored loud enough to be obnoxious even over the noise-dampening field. It was the best signal Leilarki had ever had on a job.
<br><br>

The young man in black and gold business attire strutted down the long aisle which bisected the sea of spectators, swaggering like he owned the place -- which was appropriate, under the circumstances. He stopped to bump fists with one fan, punch another, and kiss a third. Curiously, all three seemed equally delighted in his wake. He sprang up the steps leading to the ring apron and slipped between the ropes.
<br><br>

Leilarki looked through her scope, zooming in on his face. That was him. And if there had been any doubt, it would've vanished when his voice reverberated around the arena -- louder than the crowd's roar.
<br><br>

"I'm Shane Vortex, damn it, and..."
<br><br>

She fired.
<br><br>

"...no piece of crap assassin's going to take me out!"
<br><br>

The Piscarian's eyes widened.
<br><br>

"Hologram!" she said.
<br><br>

"That's right, sweetie," a female voice said.
<br><br>

Leilarki spun round, leveling the rifle. Green metal flashed. Something crashed into her jaw...
<br><br>

"Your main event!" someone said.
<br><br>

The crowd... Shouting... Screaming... Roaring... Thousands and thousands of demonic, bloodthirsty throats all clamoring.
<br><br>

She opened her eyes.
<br><br>

"What..."
<br><br>

Everything was strange. Distorted. Her limbs and face were trapped, enclosed... It was a moment or two before Leilarki realized she was wearing armor. Her mind reeled.
<br><br>

"Shane Vortex..." The words bellowed from the stadium's sound system. "...versus Fried Fish!"
<br><br>

"Fried Fish..." she murmured. "Stupid... Stupid... name."
<br><br>

She stood up and shook the cobwebs from her head. Her vision began to clear, and she gawped at a myriad faces.
<br><br>

"Come on!" Shane Vortex said.
<br><br>

Leilarki whirled round towards the sound of his voice, and stared across the ring at a figure dressed in a black and gold battlesuit.
<br><br>

"These people paid to see slaughter," he said, "and they're going to get it!"
<br><br>

He charged. And then everything got very quick, blurry, and painful for the Piscarian.
<br><br>

<font size="3">'''Multheru'''</font>
<br><br>

Telemachus stared out of the shuttle's window, into the void where far-off stars twinkled like errant pixels, and remembered.
<br><br>

"You know why they're called TALOS? It stands for The Alliance of Lambda Omicron Systems. That's what their part of space used to be called. But you know why else they picked that name? Because there used to be this big bronze robot called Talos, back on Earth. That was a long time ago... A hundred years, or something. Maybe two hundred. And TALOS make robots. Did I tell you that TALOS made my mech? I'm going to get them to make me a new one, with rockets and stuff."
<br><br>

The prince grimaced. Had he really been like that? It seemed a lifetime ago. The memories belonged to a foolish little boy, a stranger who didn't know what waited for him out in the galaxy: Horror. Loss. Sorrow. And friends who were worth more than all the mechs there'd ever be.
<br><br>

He thought about opening a com channel. Of reaching out to [Player Name], Lu Bu, Ragnar, and Talia -- who'd all be flying to their targets, just as he was. Hearing their voices, sharing warm words... It would bring a smile to his face. Maybe laughter from his lips. It would banish the quietness, the empty darkness ahead. But he couldn't. Because if he needed that comfort, he'd be that silly little boy again. And that boy wasn't going to win a battle. He was a warrior now. Just like the others. When he saw them again, it'd be with cultists' blood and brains splattered all over his mech. They'd all talk about their share of the fighting. About the big victory they'd won. Maybe he'd even thrash [Player Name] at more videogames to celebrate...
<br><br>

That thought was enough. It brought the smile he needed.
<br><br>

The communication console flashed to life in the same instant, and for a second he expected to see their faces -- Talia's smirk, Ragnar's grin, Lu Bu's impassive but somehow jovial features, and [Player Name]'s look of bemused satisfaction; all of them, sharing his amusement. But Bermund Pelar appeared there instead.
<br><br>

"Your Highness!"
<br><br>

The seneschal's expression wiped away the prince's smile.
<br><br>

"What's wrong?"
<br><br>

"The UHW has Gallea locked down. No one's allowed to leave."
<br><br>

"They can't do that! Call Dupont. Tell him I'll blow his house up!"
<br><br>

"It's an anti-contagion protocol."
<br><br>

"Huh? Disease?"
<br><br>

"Passengers at all our major spaceports have tested positive for a highly infectious-"
<br><br>

"All of them?"
<br><br>

"Yes. Incoming passengers, on every continent. And all of them arrived from different planets or stations."
<br><br>

"It's an attack!"
<br><br>

"That's the only explanation. And the UHW came before we'd even sent out the alert. Someone told them we were infected before it happened!"
<br><br>

"How bad is it?"
<br><br>

"Our medical teams are treating everyone, and Dupont's people are helping. We're lucky. The disease they chose causes more panic than physical harm, and it usually takes a while to become fatal. Only a handful have died so far -- all elderly, or with existing health problems. Sending the UHW here so early saved lives. We'll be okay, but the guards..."
<br><br>

"They're stuck there. That's why the Kalaxians did it this way, so we couldn't send Gallean troops at them."
<br><br>

"I'm sorry, Highness. You'll have to call for support from elsewhere."
<br><br>

Telemachus glanced at the display on one of the monitors.
<br><br>

"There isn't time. I need to attack when the others do. If I don't, they might get away."
<br><br>

"But-"
<br><br>

"Make sure we look after everyone who's ill."
<br><br>

"Your Highness! You can't-"
<br><br>

The prince closed the connection. His young eyes smoldered, and flooded his face with a fury well beyond his years.
<br><br>

***
<br><br>

Multheru's eyes glittered, penetrating the darkness which had engulfed his chamber. Kalaxia's eyes glittered too. The statue was an ancient relic, the sole survivor of all the idols and ornaments his ancestors had fashioned from this rare stone before Huk-Kral bombs blasted it from existence. That had always seemed so very appropriate. And now, as many times before, the outspread, membranous wings and gleaming cyan eyes sharpened his thoughts with the wyrm-mother's wisdom.
<br><br>

"A dangerous attacker," the statue said.
<br><br>

"Yes." The Quiskerian's oral tentacles caressed her stone face. "Our power supply was well shielded from intrusion."
<br><br>

"Your era relies too much on such things. When your wondrous magic..."
<br><br>

"Technology."
<br><br>

"...fails, your defenses break open. Look. See who comes."
<br><br>

Her eyes flashed. So did Multheru's. His room was gone, and so were his tentacles -- as though merciless blades had hacked away at his face and limbs, sundering flesh, leaving a mutilated mess in their wake. But the horrendous sensation vanished as it always did. It was the price of wandering through one of the doorways which led into a brother or sister's mind.
<br><br>

"Multheru..."
<br><br>

Ljubica Durovic's voice was close. The two of them might've been standing side by side on a spaceship's bridge, gazing through a window instead of her eyes. But the blackness before them in that subterranean chamber was deeper and thicker, unsoftened by the cosmic lamps which studded the void. It thwarted the Quiskerian's borrowed sight.
<br><br>

"What do you sense?" he said.
<br><br>

"Nothing!" she said.
<br><br>

"Shielding... Where's-"
<br><br>

Ljubica's gasp tightened her throat and his own. Brilliant blue light flashed, throwing an electric glow over metal plates. There was a whooshing hiss, a sizzle, and a scream. Then darkness swallowed them all.
<br><br>

"Kalaxia!"
<br><br>

"KALAXIA!"
<br><br>

Her cry rippled against the tentacles in front of Multheru's mouth, and made them dart like striking snakes. The other cultists' shouts echoed around him. More lights flashed and blinked, crisscrossing the blackness. And a hulking metal shape lumbered through the plinking, fizzing shots -- a multicolored monstrosity painted in their glow.
<br><br>

More blue. This time it whirred around the mech's arm in a blinding surge of illumination and grating, churning noise.
<br><br>

"Kalax-"
<br><br>

The blueness slashed. Ljubica screamed. So did the Quiskerian, as oblivion swallowed him.
<br><br>

Multheru staggered. The tentacles writhing around his left hand brushed against something hard and cold. Its familiarity centered him, and deposited him back in his chamber.
<br><br>

The room brightened. His appendages thrashed -- but the sudden illumination wasn't a blazing weapon this time. The lighting had come back to life, bathing everything around him.
<br><br>

"The emergency power systems..."
<br><br>

That thought appeared in his head, uttered by several minds. Then there were screams.
<br><br>

"Stop him!" the statue said.
<br><br>

Its stone was hot under his flesh, and sent waves of warmth undulating through his body.
<br><br>

"Yes..." he said.
<br><br>

Multheru whirled round, tentacles sweeping and slashing. He grabbed the bulbous purple object that rested beside the idol. Another relic. A decrepit, irreplaceable treasure from a lost world, empire, and people.
<br><br>

"You'll have a new empire," the statue said, "if you destroy the betrayer's minions."
<br><br>

Multheru dashed for the exit, his movement halfway between a run and a slither. His hands and the serpentine appendages surrounding them all slotted into the bulky weapon's casing -- finding their individual berths.
<br><br>

"Destroy the betrayer's minions..."
<br><br>

The words echoed in the twitching of his tentacles.
<br><br>

***
<br><br>

Telemachus' mech stormed through the big vaulted chamber, beneath a smooth rock dome. A dragon glared at him on the right. He almost blasted it before he realized it was just a statue, carved from the same stone as the rest of the sculpted cavern. He fired the shot at a cultist's chest instead. The man's innards drifted from a gaping hole in a puff of red vapor.
<br><br>

"Kalaxia!"
<br><br>

A Snuuth leapt at him, swinging a crackling energy blade. The prince's chainsaw caught it in a blaze of sparks. A second later, the alien fell. In messy halves.
<br><br>

He turned round, looking for fresh worlds to conquer. Or at least fresh enemies whose gore could decorate this world's floor.
<br><br>

Then everything vanished in a magenta explosion.
<br><br>

***
<br><br>

Multheru tossed the spent weapon aside, and consigned another fragment of his species' legacy to history. It had done its work. Tendrils of violet smoke crept along the stone floor and snaked through the air, around the orange mass of wrecked metal. A shattered cockpit canopy lay atop the heap -- the shell of a broken black egg.
<br><br>

"Ugh..."
<br><br>

The groan came from beyond the mangled corpse. It made the Quiskerian's oral tentacles flutter. His mind reached out, probing.
<br><br>

"There you are..." His words and thoughts insinuated themselves into the boy's head, winding their way among clouds of pain and disorientation. "The silly little prince. Yes, I know of you... A stupid boy who rules a world, but lives life as a game. Who lets his friends drag him into absurd exploits so he can shirk his responsibilities. The galaxy laughs at you, child. They all laugh at the chainsaw-prince who never wants to grow up. And now never will..."
<br><br>

Multheru's mental appendages plunged for the kill.
<br><br>

-------------------------------------
<br><br>

Telemachus screamed. Agony, unimaginable anguish... A billion barbed blades scouring the surface of his brain... And through it all, amid endless oceans of pain, loomed a squid-like face. Its tentacles undulated with malice and laughter.
<br><br>

He was a fool. A stupid little boy.
<br><br>

"Yes." The alien's bizarre voice slithered and thundered. "A prince who killed his father, and failed an entire planet. Die knowing this, child. And know that your world belongs to Kalaxia."
<br><br>

Die... Yes. He was going to die. Die. Die. Die. Die like his father. Die like Illaria. Die like Wu Tenchu. Die like Talia, and Ragnar, and [Player Name], and-
<br><br>

"Come on, Tel!"
<br><br>

"Huh?"
<br><br>

The voice was soft; almost silent. Just a whisper. But it pierced the pain like a blaster shot.
<br><br>

"Come on, Tel!"
<br><br>

"Talia? Talia! Help! I-"
<br><br>

"Yes," the tentacled face said. "Die crying for friends who aren't here. Die screaming for help that will never come. Beg those phantoms, those memories-"
<br><br>

Memories... Memories! A spark glimmered in the prince's brain.
<br><br>

"Win!"
<br><br>

This was his brain. His mind. And he'd fought for it once before...
<br><br>

The universe shifted.
<br><br>

"Die alone. Die far from..."
<br><br>

Surprise rippled along the alien's tentacles like an electric shock. His body shuddered beneath the fabric of his azure and cyan robes -- twitching tangles of writhing, wriggling serpents. His head snapped one way and then the other. Oral appendages flailed and grasped. He stared at his surroundings and then down at his own hands, eyes widening into big black pools.
<br><br>

"What?" Telemachus said. "Didn't your crappy species ever invent 16-bit graphics?"
<br><br>

"Then your mind isn't so weak..."
<br><br>

"No."
<br><br>

The prince clicked his fingers. A stream of orange pixels descended, and swirled around his body like a swarm of insects. They settled into the shape of a battlesuit. A chainsaw arrived on his right arm with a happy whir.
<br><br>

"I'll enjoy destroying you," the alien said.
<br><br>

His head snapped forward. A row of tentacles shot at the prince, flying across the room -- stretching till each was dozens of feet long.
<br><br>

Telemachus somersaulted high above them. They retracted with a thwarted wet slapping sound.
<br><br>

The Quiskerian looked up at the airborne prince. His appendages lashed out again, soaring upwards to skewer him. But Telemachus dropped down under their attack and landed on his feet. He grinned. Even [Player Name] could've dodged that one...
<br><br>

Tentacles snapped back against the alien's face. He glowered at the prince for a split-second. Then Telemachus launched himself into a flying uppercut.
<br><br>

His chainsaw whirred and grinded. The alien screamed. Red pixels splashed all over the place.
<br><br>

"You win, Tel," Talia's voice said. "Perfect."
<br><br>

The 16-bit world disintegrated, and the real universe's superior graphics rushed in to replace it.
<br><br>

Telemachus grabbed his communicator.
<br><br>

That stupid alien had been right about one thing...
<br><br>

"Bermund?" he said.
<br><br>

"Your Highness, are you-"
<br><br>

"I'm fine. But I need you to do something. After they get rid of that disease, and lift the quarantine, start arranging the coronation. Gallea needs a king."
<br><br>

It was time to stop playing games.
<br><br>